


Americano

by TheLoneMeme



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, Trans Male Character, Trans Simmons, club settings, generally tomfoolery and moral ambiguity that goes with club settings, is that a tag?, slightly explicit?, the answer is never lol, tucker is there, when do I ever write Simmons not trans?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-05 04:15:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13379961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLoneMeme/pseuds/TheLoneMeme
Summary: A Grimmons coffee shop au, including bartender Grif, barista Simmons, and some Tuckington for flavor. Enjoy, my dudes.





	1. Could've Been Worse

**Author's Note:**

> *ignores my current fic and posts this instead* im sorry let me live okay. Enjoy, you bastards.

Grif was way too used to his morning bit with Wash. Does it count as morning if it’s two in the afternoon by the time he leaves for work? Probably not. Too bad. Managing Blood Gulch for Kai meant late nights. And he’d be damned if he wasn’t entitled to free coffee. He walked into Valhalla, Kai’s latest venture. Her cozy little coffee shop, lit mostly by fairy lights and the laptops of the students who were ever present, was Grif’s favorite of her schemes. Sure, he loved bartending. But he’d be damned if he wasn’t a little bit jealous that Wash got to take over Valhalla when Kai started planning whatever new thing she wanted to do next. 

But Wash wasn’t behind the counter. Grif’s stomach stopped falling somewhere around his toes, but the sudden shift in gravity left his blushing. Simmons, Kai’s favorite and most socially awkward barista, was behind the register. He looked as miserable as Grif very suddenly felt. His freckled face peered over the register at Grif, forearm resting on top of the screen while he lazed and waited for Grif to approach the counter. His green eyes left Grif lightheaded. Stupid fucking red-headed asshole. But Grif could flirt. He could. He was good at it. That’s the only reason he ever made any money in tips (or rather, made Tucker money in tips). 

“I know the owner.” Grif said, waving his hand in a way he hoped seemed suave and sarcastic and not absolutely rude as hell. “I’ll have my usual.”

Simmons blinked up at him, opening his mouth once, twice, three times before clearing his throat. 

“And what would that be?” He asked, voice sharp and almost too quiet for Grif to hear. 

So maybe he had seemed like an asshole. He could recover. Totally doable. 

“Large americano, iced. White chocolate.” He blurted. Good save. Great. 

Simmons, now looking like he would rather dump Grif’s coffee in his lap than actually make it for him to drink, punched the order into his screen. 

“Four seventy-five.” He spat, holding his hand out. 

Grif chuckled, uncomfortable. “I wasn’t kidding. I know Kai. Just make me my coffee.” Shit. Shit shit shit shit. “Please.” Not better. 

Simmons pressed a couple of buttons on his screen, stepping away from the register. He held up a finger, and disappeared in the back room. He came back a second later, dragging Donut with him. He deposited the squeaking man at the counter, pointing at Grif, an obvious  _ ‘you deal with this’ _ motion. When he disappeared again, this time behind the espresso bar, it was clear any chance Grif might have had of explaining himself was gone. Donut just shook his head, following Grif’s eyes as they tracked Simmons head over the glass that separated him from the rest of the shop. He chuckled, clearly understanding more than Grif wanted him to. Asshole. Donut waved him off when his drink was done, and when he stopped at the end of the bar to pick it up, Simmons was leaning against the counter, half facing him. Grif was too fucking far gone to deal with the way his spine curved over the lip of the counter, how his nose turned up at the end, his his cheeks were flushed red in anger as he tried not to let Grif see him totally watching him. 

Grif muttered his thanks and retreated. Fucking hell. Shit. 

 

****

 

Wash was way too excited for this. Way too overzealous as he signed at Junior from across the table. Junior signed back just as excitedly, though, describing his week in the vibrant way only an eight year old could. Wash could see Tucker out of the corner of his eye, his teal hoodie making him easy to spot. He looked ready to fall asleep in his chair, but he kept his chin propped on his hand, clearly trying to follow the conversation happening in front of him. Wash held up a hand, reaching into the backpack that he had brought with, and pulled out a ‘Guardians of the Galaxy’ DVD. He handed it to Junior, signed for him to watch it, and to describe the characters to Wash afterwards. It was a total cop out, but it was still an exercise for Junior to practice his vocabulary. 

Once Wash heard the movie start, he walked up to the almost-sleeping man, crouched in front of him and tapped his knee. 

“You gonna make it?” He asked, resting a hand on Tucker’s thigh. There intimacy was new, so new. They had been friends for almost three years, but actually dating for only a month. Wash was dizzy with how good it felt to finally be allowed to touch the man he had been subtly and not so subtly trying to catch for years. 

Tucker just shook his head, eyes still closed. “Late shift last night. Freshman move-in. So many fake I.D.’s.” he peeled one eye open, his pupil blown wide as his eyes adjusted to the light. 

Wash reached a hand up and ran it through his dreads, spilling them haphazardly across his shoulders. Tucker leaned into the contact, but hissed and froze a moment later. 

“I forget how old I’m getting sometimes. My whole body aches, like, literally always. I’m twenty-seven, Wash. Practically a senior citizen.”

Wash chuckled. He leaned backwards so he could see into the living room doorway from his spot in the dining room. “Junior, I’m gonna get your dad to bed, okay kiddo? He had a late night. Mind filling me in on what happens during the movie?”

Junior popped his head around the corner, nodding and giving a thumbs up. His gap-toothed grin made Wash’s heart twist funnily in his chest. He just wanted to fucking adopt him. He just needed to marry his dad first. Wash gave a thumbs up back as the kid ran back to the couch. The volume on the television went down a second later. 

Turning his attention back to Tucker, who had fallen back asleep, Wash settled on scooping him up and carrying him to bed. The startled noise his boyfriend made as he did so untwisted the knot Junior had left in his chest. 

“Where we goin’?” Tucker mumbled, mouth pressed against Wash’s chest. 

“Bed, you need to sleep, baby. You’ve been awake for almost twenty-four hours.” Wash said, depositing Tucker onto his bed and crawling in next to him, carefully to stay on top of the covers as Tucker snuggled in underneath them. 

“‘M not a baby. But, yeah, okay, bed.” Tucker slid a hand out from under the blankets, grabbing Wash’s hand and pulling him flush behind him, wrapping his arm around his waist. Wash stayed as Tucker’s breathing evened out, and was about to get up when he heard a small knock at the door. Junior was in the doorway, hesitant. 

‘ _ Can I nap with you?’ _ He signed, shifting on his feet. Wash smiled and signed back an enthusiastic yes. Tucker woke when Junior crawled into bed, but only long enough to pull his kid up and into his arms. 

Wash hadn’t meant to fall asleep. But he was with his family, warm and safe and happy. He woke the next morning with two piles of dreads on his chest, one from his partner and one from his son. Their son. He wanted to stay there forever. 

 

****

 

Simmons really did like his job. He was good at it. Or at least half of it. He could make a fucking bomb latte. He just couldn’t talk to people. He especially couldn’t talk to people who came in insisting that he make them their drinks, for free, just because they ‘know Kai’. Like, who the fuck even does that? Cute guys who look like they’re gonna be nice and maybe even flirt a little, that’s fucking who. Christ. 

Maybe he could have played off his whole ‘I don’t know your order’ schtick a little bit better. The guy came in everyday, it’s not like Simmons didn’t already have his drink made before he’d ordered it half of the time. But he didn’t, like, owe the guy anything. Fucking hell, he was rude as shit, and was every time he came into the store. Wash rolled with it easily enough, but that was Wash. Who decided to take the wrong fucking day off. 

Simmons blustered and fussed around the shop, clearly fuming. He wanted to go home. He wanted to get off of the stupid register he had had to be on because fucking Wash took a day off. He wanted to send a pitcher of steaming milk at Donut’s head. 

The bell let out a soft  _ ding _ , and Simmons stilled in his tantrum. He looked up, and Dick Man was standing at the register, looking awfully bashful for someone who, at the start of his eternal shift, had been the quintessential asshole. He looked at the clock. Twenty minutes. Two sections of ten minutes. Four five minute intervals. He could do this. Sighing, he forced a smile on his face. 

“What can I get for you?” He asked, aiming for friendly and missing by miles. The guy flinched. 

“Can I get, um, a…” Ho looked up at the menu, face flushed. His ears turned pinker and pinker the longer he waited. He swallowed so thickly that Simmons could hear it. “Actually, um, I’m sorry. About earlier. Today. That whole things was....a mess. I’d like to apologize. That’s what I came here for. Also an iced americano. But mostly the whole sorry thing.”

Simmons felt his mouth fall open. Dick Man had a soul. 

“With white chocolate, right?” He asked, cutting himself off before he could do something stupid like be nice.

Dick looked taken aback. “Yeah. Or nothing. I’m, just. Yeah, white chocolate.” 

He was red down to the collar of his black button down, but he smiled at Simmons like he might just mean what he said. Stupid fucking men. With their stupid strong hands and their stupid heart-melting brown eyes. Simmons returned the smile, hesitant. 

“Thought so. You’re here almost every day, it’s an easy drink.” Simmons said, smirking. He could feel a blush starting on his cheeks. Fuck biology. 

“Yeah, I work at Blood Gulch. My sister, Kai, she owns it, I run the bar.”

Simmons raised his eyebrows. “So you’re Grif. That makes sense. Wash, you know Wash, right?” The guy, Grif, nodded. “Right. Yeah, he talks about you and Kai a lot. I guess I never made the connection. Whoops.” 

“She’s my kid sister. I’d rather people didn’t associate me with her shenanigans, trust me.” His face, somehow, got redder. “I’ve actually gotta get back. Can I get my, um…” His voice trailed off. Simmons laughed in spite of himself. 

“I’ll have that out at the end of the bar for you, Grif.” He said, stepping away from the cash register. 

Simmons nodded, waving away the card the guy tried to hand him and starting his drink. Simmons picked up his marker. He could set it down and give the guy his drink. He could retain a shred of dignity. He could definitely not write his number on this guys cup. That was totally an option. 

Grif didn’t even look at his cup as he grabbed his drink. Simmons watched as his number was covered by his tanned hand. Grif watched Simmons watch him, an apologetic smile on his lips. 

Stupid fucking men. 

 

****

 

Grif made it halfway to Gulch before he even bothered to look at his cup. His heart settled somewhere in the cargo area of his jeep. Simmons had written his number. Maybe Grif hadn’t fucked it up so badly, after all. Or maybe he had, and Simmons was fucking with him. Only one way to find out. 

Grif found himself typing the number into his phone once he had parked, feeling slightly sick. He could call this off, put his phone away, and spare himself anymore graceless floundering. He sighed, thought ' _fuck it'_ , and hit send. 

**G** : So if you're not the cute barista I pissed off today, whoops. But if you are, do you want to maybe grab coffee tomorrow? 

He sat, his phone in his lap, and waited. After five minutes of smoking and pretending he totally wasn't waiting for a completely stupid text, his phone buzzed. He nearly launched it out the window while trying to unlock it. 

 **S:** Did you just ask a  _barista_ out to coffee? Dude. But honestly if you're buying I'm down to get drinks on Friday?

Grif heart was still knocking around in his backseat, or it would have fallen out of his asshole. Shit. Holy Shit. 

 **G:** Dude, yeah, totally on me. I owe you one, after today. That was an absolute shit show. Have I apologized yet? Because I feel like I should do that again. 

 **S:** So I'm gonna give a yes across the board on that. Although, honestly, it could've been worse.

Grif grinned at his phone like a fucking teenager. Stupid fucking red heads. 


	2. Lonesome

Simmons was used to being rejected. Really. The dating life of a trans guy in his small hometown was as dry as a freshly bleached asshole left to dry in the sun for three days. But Grif had seemed interested. Or at least decent enough to not fuck with him if he wasn’t. But really, Simmons didn’t know him. Who was he to judge the dude’s character. He hadn’t expected to be left alone in Gulch on a Friday night, though.   
He could leave. He wasn’t contractually obligated to stay at this stupid bar, waiting on a stupid guy. But he stayed, nursing his almost room-temperature beer, and decidedly not checking his phone. Besides, Gulch wasn’t the worst club. It was loud, sure, but the bartender was hot and kept checking in on him. After his second beer, twenty minutes after deciding to just down his first and really fuck over his morning (fuck lightweightedness, honestly), he started to actually answer the guy’s questions.   
“So, I’m assuming you don’t just hang out in clubs, alone, for fun?” The guy asked. He had pulled back from the bar a little, tucked near the corner Simmons had stationed himself at. He was piling his dreads up on top of his head, his arms flexing nicely as he did.   
Simmons smiled, feeling a little floaty. “No, not ever, actually. I was supposed to grab drinks with someone, but, you know.” He shrugged. “What’s your name, by the way? Calling you Hot Bartender probably isn’t great.” He was definitely tipsier than he had meant to be.   
The guy smiled, almost bashful. “Tucker. But Hot Bartender is honestly fine with me.” He leaned on his elbows in front of Simmons, putting himself at eye level. “Who’s the cutie who left this-” He gestured to Simmons’ everything, “alone in a club?”  
Simmons snorted, looking down. Yup. His black jeans and fitted tee were really something else. “Some dick. Went by ‘Grif’, but honestly I highly doubt that’s his real name. He said he worked here, too, but he probably just said that so he could get in my pants. What barista wouldn’t fuck a bartender? Is that a stereotype? I’m making it one.” God, he really needed to sober up. He never talked this much. Was he talking too much? Shit.   
Tucker’s face twisted, and he pulled upright. “Grif. Like, tall, obvious asshole, built like a fucking brick house? Grif? Dexter Grif?”  
Simmons blinked at him. “Yes?” He answered, feeling thrown off center. Maybe Grif hadn’t been a really weird hallucination. With textual evidence of existence.   
“Dude. Dude. Dude. He works here. He’s very real.” Tucker leaned back down, a wicked grin on his face. “He’s here right now. And normally I’m not one for fucking with my boss but,” he leaned back, eyeing Simmons again, “you’re hot as hell. And anyone who leaves someone like you alone in a bar deserves what they get.”  
Simmons wasn’t tipsy enough for this to not be real. And he was sober enough to tell the guy to fuck off. But, really, it clearly wasn’t a day for good choices. But a pang in his chest (stupid feelings) made him pause.   
“He’s here, right now? As in, he’s in the building he asked me to meet him in, the building I texted him to let him know I was in, and he’s nowhere to be found?” God, why did he feel like he could cry any second. God.   
Tucker was still grinning, but he looked slightly hesitant. “Listen, Grif is an ass. But if you want to get back at him, I know someone who is more than willing to help you out. I can’t, that asshole over there,” he pointed to a short, buff man by the door, who waved back at him with a lovestruck look on his face, “needs to get in my pants, but won’t because he’s a chicken. So I can’t make out with you, no matter how hot you are. But Church has no moral standards, and hates Grif. Give me a sec.”   
Simmons just watched as Tucker waved down a gorgeous brunette, who sauntered over to the bar.   
“Church, Cute Twink. Cute Twink, Church. Or Lee-o-nard, as I like to call him.” Tucker said.   
“Not if you want to keep your tongue, you don’t.” Church spat. His sour expression was doing nothing to put Simmons at ease.   
Tucker sighed. “Listen, buddy. I know we have our whole ‘who’s hotter’ rivalry, but we gotta set that aside for a second. Grif stood up Cute Twink, but he’s here, and I have an idea that involves some moral, shall we say, ambiguity.”  
“I didn’t realize you knew words that long, Tucker. But, yeah, why not. Count me in.” Church said, his face becoming slightly more pleasant. He turned towards Simmons. “I’m like 90% straight-don’t you dare fucking say Caboose’s name, Tucker-and even I think you’re hot. What the fuck, Grif?” He mused, mostly to himself. Simmons flushed.   
Tucker slapped a hand on Simmons’ shoulder. “You down for this?” He asked, eyebrows raised.   
“Can I get a shot of tequila first?” Simmons asked, and heard his voice crack. Whatever. Church just seemed to eye him harder.   
Tucker grinned again, practically splitting his face in two. “Hell fucking yes you can.”  
Church raised a hand. “Give me two. This is gonna be fun.”

****

How Grif had gotten roped into helping Kai with lights, he would never understand. He hated the fucking catwalks above Gulch, hated the fucking rigging, and hated heights. The fact that the ‘security strap’ Kai had made him wear was pinching his balls and making it impossible to reach his phone was not helping. And the nagging feeling that he had forgotten something was fucking eating at him. Jesus. Maybe it was the itch on his upper thigh that he hadn’t been able to scratch for an hour. God, he’d give his left leg to even have Tucker to talk to.   
With nothing else to do, Grif turned towards the bar. At least he could people watch. But people watching quickly turned into frantic grabbing at his ass as he spotted Simmons’ red hair at the end of the bar. Church was pressed up along his side, mouthing at his neck. God, Grif could practically smell his cologne. Mother fucker. Grif fumbled with his back pocket as he watched Church slip a hand up Simmons’ shirt, earned himself, from the look on his face, a satisfying little noise. God fucking damn it. Fucking cocksucking shitlord of a donkeyfucker. Even under the lights, Grif could see Simmons flushing. This was torture. Medieval. He wasn’t finding any success with his jeans pocket, just floundering. Simmons was reaching out, biting along Church’s neck and balling a fist in his shirt. God damn it!  
He finally won the war against his pants, rescuing his phone. He had two missed texts from Simmons, and one from Tucker.   
S:Hey! Just got to Gulch. I’ll be at the bar   
S:So I don’t want to sound like an ass, but you’re kind of late? And I’m not gonna wait around for much longer, dude.   
Grif felt the texts like a punch in the gut. But Tucker’s was plain sadistic.   
T:Sweet Christ, Grif. Really? Like, Just when I’m making progress with Wash? You deliver a tightass twink to my bar? And he’s heartbroken???? I want to suck his dick soooooo bad Grif. Or maybe I’ll ask Church to. Yeah, Definitely Church. God, I bet anything that Simmons loves a dick in his mouth. He’s got the face, you know? I can’t think of a single reason Church wouldn’t fuck him.  
Grif wanted to hurl his phone across the club. Fuck Tucker. Fuck Church. And fuck his sister! He was supposed to be the one feeling up Simmons’ body in the middle of a club! Not that he thought he’d get the chance to, but still. If anyone was gonna do it, it should have been him!   
Right before Grif was about to start his descent from the rafter, his phone buzzed. Tucker’s name popped up on his screen, along with a text that read;  
Don’t start a fistfight in my bar. If you’re gonna hit Church, do it outside. Or not at all. But I’m honestly impartial on the whole ‘hitting’ thing.   
Grif grumbled as he came down the ladder. Fucking Tucker. 

****

Simmons didn’t really know how he had managed to get himself into this, but damn was he glad he did. Church pressed all the right buttons, making Simmons glad that Gulch was enough on a true nightclub for him making out with a stranger to not be all that unusual. But before he could pull back and ask this Church dude if he would let Simmons blow him in the bathroom, he was yanked backwards. Simmons caught himself as he fell forwards, once Church wasn’t there to hold him up. When he found his footing and looked up, Grif was in front of him, holding Church by his collar. He was red in the face, looking between Simmons, Church, and Tucker like that would make this any less weird.   
Simmons pulled himself upright, his temper flaring. Who was this asshole, getting mad at him? He got stood up, left alone in a club, made to feel like shit. Nobody got to be mad at him for having fun when they would do that to him. No way.   
“Can you let him go please?” Simmons asked, cocking his head to the side. “I want him to fuck my face in the bathroom, if you don’t mind.” He pushed forward, pushing Church further back and away from Grif, making a b-line for the restroom signs.   
He could hear Grif sputtering, and Tucker laughing. Church was chuckling too.   
“We’re not actually gonna….” Church asked, trailing off.   
“No,” Simmons pouted. “I just. God. Who gave him the right to act like that? Just. I needed to piss him off, and I needed to get out of that for a second to think. Fucking hell.” Simmons had turned to flip the lock on the door, but Grif barged in before he could reach it.   
“Please don’t blow him!” He shouted as he shouldered his way through the door. He looked panicked. Simmons just rolled his eyes.   
“I wasn’t gonna blow him, god. I’m not sober, he’s not sober, and I have high enough standards to not get fucked in a club bathroom. Fuck you. But you, of all the fucking people on this planet, do not get to tell me who I can or cannot fuck!” Simmons knew he was yelling. But he was in a club. WHo even gives a fuck in a club? Gay men always make scenes there.   
“Just,” Grif slumped, “please let me explain, again, before you completely write me off?”  
Church huffed, mumbled something about posting on the craigslist ‘missed connections’ page, and exited the bathroom.   
“You have three fucking minutes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIVE. But only for like a chpater I have a heavy course load this semester and your boi is trying for that sick A streak.


End file.
